


Atonement

by KoreArabin



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Bondage, Dark, Other, Rape Aftermath, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22547902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: "Doctor.Doctor. Have you ever been tied down with piano wire?"
Comments: 18
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is dark - please heed the tags.

He's shaking, _reverberating_ with anger.

"You left me! You left me with those - _animals_!"

The Doctor folds her arms, searching his face. "You seemed quite at home with them..."

"Protected! Disguised! But you took that - you took my perception filter and then you LEFT ME!"

He can hardly keep still, trembling, sweating, holding out his wrists to her, thin cotton shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows.

All at once, his rage seems to dissipate, and he shivers, his voice hoarse and muted. “You took my Tardis and you left me.” 

The Doctor examines his wrists - they are swathed around and around with a maze of scars, bracelets of lacy white against his dark skin. "What? What is this? I don't understand?"

He stumbles backwards, his legs suddenly unsteady, and slumps into one of the chairs beside the console. 

"Doctor. _Doctor_. Have you ever been tied down with piano wire?"


	2. Chapter 2

He can't believe she's done this. Yes, okay, he's been hanging out with them, posing as a captain, but that's just a way of preserving oneself when in Nazi occupied France. But leaving him to the mercy of such people - are they really human? 

He blusters when they surround him after the Doctor leaves him defenceless at the Eiffel Tower. But now they can see him, _really_ see him, he's fucked.

They tear the uniform from him - cap, greatcoat, jacket, breeches, boots - even the shirt. He's shivering in a thin cotton undershirt and drawers as they drag him, kicking and struggling, down the grey, shadowy corridors, at last unlocking one of the thick iron doors and throwing him into the cell behind it.

It's tiny, a wooden bench attached to the wall on one side, a pail in the corner, and barred, glassless windows. It's _freezing_. He curls into a corner, hugging his knees to his chest, and waits. 

~~~

He's folded into himself, gasping, and the Doctor gently rests her hand on his nape. 

What's really disturbing is that he leans into her touch.


	3. Chapter 3

He's crying, his face pressed against her hand. His lips are parted, and she can feel the edge of his teeth and the wetness of his saliva against her fingers, mixing with the tears as he shudders against her. 

~~~

He's frozen with cold when they come for him, almost welcoming the rough, but _warm_ , hands upon him. They drag him - this time, he's too stiff to fight - to an equally grey but larger room. There's a metal chair, bolted to the floor, and a heavy wooden table. He's unceremoniously pushed down over the table and when he tries to straighten up there's a gloved hand on the back of his neck, holding him against the wood. His ankles are kicked apart and bound to the table legs, his wrists twisted behind him and secured with similar efficiency. He struggles against the table top, trying to see what his captors are doing.

"Be still!"

The knots are pulled tighter, enough to chafe against his wrists.

The words come from behind him. "Who are you? And where is our captain?"

He can't see the speaker, save as a threatening presence behind him in the corner of his eye. His apprehension grows when his drawers are pulled down to mid-thigh, as far as they will go, given the way he's restrained.

"Again. Who are you, and where is our captain?"

He gasps, jerking against the ropes in surprise as the thin cotton drawers are ripped away. The Master stares at the wooden table top, vacantly tracing the curving whorls and knots of its rough surface. He doesn't even know how many of them there are standing behind him, taking in his humiliation at being bent over naked, his arse bare and his cock and balls visible between his splayed thighs. A Time Lord shouldn't be in this position, humbled before mere humans.

But even worse than the humiliation is the growing sense of dread that this is only the beginning.


	4. Chapter 4

"Are you going to tell me who you are?"

The Master continues to stare down at the table.

"Are you going to tell us where our captain is?"

Silence.

"Very well." The booted footsteps echo off the concrete floor, then there's the sound of a heavy door quietly groaning open.

"Search the prisoner. Make it - memorable."

He tenses. What do they mean? He's buck naked - what the fuck do they mean about searching him? What's there to find?

There's silence behind him, and the seconds and minutes elongate, amplifying the stillness. Well. He steels himself - he won't give them the satisfaction of showing fear.

Suddenly there's the sound of something wet and viscous being poured out behind him - a lewd squelching - and then, the feeling of cold, slippery fingers spreading his buttocks and probing at his anus. A slick digit presses into him, and he wriggles, trying to dislodge it, but there's no escape, only a huff of amusement from his assailant and the finger probing deeper inside him.

He tries to clench down against the the humiliating penetration, but the intruding finger is too slick with lubrication. He can only grunt and squirm and clench helplessly around it, struggling in vain against the ropes securing him to the table.


	5. Chapter 5

He grunts again when a second finger joins the first. His anus already feels far too stretched - it's too much, too fast. And then the bastard uses his other hand to spread his buttocks even wider apart, the skin around his entrance painfully taut. 

"Give me more lube."

More squelching, and then there's renewed pressure at his anus, as the sadistic bastard behind him starts pushing another finger into him.

It's still too much, too much, and he's groaning in pain as the third digit breaches his hole.

"Please."

He says it involuntarily. He's in too much pain to remain silent.

"Please what, _dog_?"

Even tied down and in pain, he can't let that pass. He fights and fights against the restraints, and the fingers in his arse.

"I am the Master! You will release me this instant!"

The only response is a chuckle and the sensation of fingers - a hand - pressing inexorably into him, and then pumping, slowly stretching and opening him up. 

His assailant suddenly crooks his fingers, and his fingertips are pressing against his prostate, massaging it, and the Master is moaning in earnest, his cock swelling despite himself. 

And then the bastard is drizzling more lube over his arse, and carding his hand, and pressing insistently at his entrance, and the Master can't stop himself from crying out, his anus burning as his assailant's knuckles begin to breach him.


	6. Chapter 6

There's nothing he can do to prevent his assailant's hand forcing its way into him. He's utterly violated, forced open and impossibly stretched, until at last he feels the widest part of this bastard's hand breaching him, and suddenly he's spasming around the wrist in his arse in helpless agony.

Then, the arm impaling him begins to move.

He pants against the table, sweating, as his innards feel as if they're being rearranged from the inside out. There's pressure against his prostate (pleasant), and pressure against his bladder (not pleasant), and he's suddenly aching with an urgent need to urinate. He moans as he works himself on to the arm impaling him, trying to escape the strain on his internal organs.

"Who are you?"

When he doesn't respond, his assailant begins pull his arm back, until the Master can feel the horrible, solid bulk of the fist pressing against his sphincter from the inside. He moans, raising his arse, trying to alleviate the pressure inside him. The bastard torturing him only laughs, kneading his knuckles against the Master's prostate with precision, again and again, relentless, until the electric ecstasy he should be feeling morphs into grinding pain.

_"Where is our captain?"_


	7. Chapter 7

He can't breathe, gasping now and whimpering every time his assailant's fist presses against his prostate, squirming as he belatedly realises that his erect cock is squashed between his belly and the table top. It's painful, but _good_ painful, and hasn't he always been one for inflicting pain as well as taking it? Oh yes, he likes taking it. A masochistic sadist who switches up and down, enjoying the screams. Whether they're his or his victim's, he's never been too sussed. 

His assailant's hand is pressing forwards and back, stimulating his prostate with such sadistically precise strokes that he is moaning anew, sobbing helplessly as his orgasm suddenly washes over him. He comes and comes for what seems an eternity, pulsing gouts of ejaculate into the space between his stomach and the table top.

It's not long before the euphoria of his climax gives way to self-disgust. He's lying in a rapidly cooling puddle of his own come, his bruised cock softening between his splayed thighs, with a man's thick forearm still buried deep in his arse. That utter bastard gives him one last solid fist pump before pulling out of his rectum. For a moment, he feels as if he is being turned inside out, but then the pressure is gone, and he feels almost empty.

He's cold, and in pain, and miserable lying in the mess underneath his bare torso. Then, once again there's the sound of a heavy door quietly groaning open.

"Well done. He looks as if he's had an extremely memorable body search. Gag him, and leave him in his mess. 24 to 48 hours without food or water should make him more - _amenable_."

A thick rubber bit gag is forced between his teeth, and secured tightly behind his head, and he's left, sore, cold and squirming, his arse dribbling trickles of lube down over his splayed thighs.


	8. Chapter 8

In the end they only leave him there for several hours - certainly not the 24 or 48 hours specified by that fucking sadistic officer. Even Nazi zealots, brainwashed with notions of racial superiority and the _Herrenrasse_ , realise that a prisoner can only be interrogable for so long, deprived of basic necessities like food and warmth. He groans as the vile rubber gag is removed, then mewls in anguish as the ropes around his wrists are untied, and feeling begins to seep back into the numbed tissue of his arms.

He's pulled up, abruptly, and handcuffs are instead secured around his wrists, just as the ropes around his ankles are sheared away. 

"Come." He's jostled forwards, and he stumbles, cold, numb and weak. He's so hungry. That realisation comes out of nowhere. He can never, _really never_ , recall being this hungry, _ever_. And so _thirsty_. 

He's shepherded into yet another tiny, grey dismal room, and his handcuffs shackled behind him to a chain in the wall. He shouts in shock and anger as a water cannon is turned on him, the freezing water slamming him against the wall of the cell. The operator appears to relish his cries, aiming the torrent of water at his face, his arse, his genitals. When he's slumped on the floor of the cell, gasping and sobbing, the deluge at last ceases. 

One guard then releases his wrists, and the other produces another pair of cuffs. These are made of thin strands of wire which wrap three or four times around each wrist. Once secured, he's led to another small cell, but this time he's at last allowed to eat and drink. There's a bowl of warmish porridge and a bottle of water, and we wolfs the food down before emptying the bottle. They even allow him ten minutes or so of peace before dragging him back along the endless corridors to another grey interrogation room.

His hands are raised above his head and fastened above him to a chain hanging down from the ceiling of the cell. The chain's position is just slightly too high for him, forcing him to stretch up on his tiptoes. He teeters, trying to balance, effectively, simply hanging by his wrists from the wire cuffs cutting into them against the possibility of breaking his toes in attempting to bear his whole body weight on their very tips. Without warning, one of the guards punches him hard in the stomach, setting him swinging and teetering anew as he struggles to find his feet again. 

Trickles of something wet are suddenly running down his arms, and he realises that the wire cuffs are cutting into his wrists. He shifts his weight around, trying to find the most comfortable way to stand, alternating between resting his back and shoulder muscles, and those in his feet and calves. Just when he's beginning to tremble uncontrollably from the strain, a new Nazi officer stalks into the cell.

A somewhat short and slight person, thick blonde hair slicked back below the familiar uniform cap, wide hazel eyes focussed intently upon him.

"So. You are "the Master"? Really? Most amusing. I think that I would like to hear some more about this, with you..." the officer gestures disparagingly at him, "not _Aryan_."

Producing an electric cattle prod, the officer taps its end against one of the Master's nipples.

"And so. Let us begin."


End file.
